“You heard the chief, lads. Now you know as much as we do. Let's all go to our stations, and let these men work.”
So we did, and that was that. Some time later, the lights flickered on again. After another long, hopeful wait we heard the tentative hum of the diesels, followed by the throb of a turning shaft. Then the skipper's voice over the intercom system, “All hands, attention. All clear. We're taking her up.” . . .
It was broad daylight when, after making certain no enemy craft were in the vicinity, the Grampus surfaced. We were under a blanket of radio silence, of course, but in the hope of sighting a friendly vessel, the skipper told me to get my flags and come along topside with him.
That fresh air sure smelled good. And the sun felt good, too. But we'd lost the other ships in our convoy—if you'd call it that. The horizon was clear as far as the eye could reach. Not a dot on the water.
No, there was one dot. The Old Man spotted it before any of us, levelled his binoculars on the dancing black fleck and grunted thoughtfully.
“A man. On a raft, or a spar. A survivor, perhaps. I imagine one of the ships didn't get off as lightly as we did.” He sighed. “Bring her about, Mister. We'll pick him up.”
The second saluted and ducked below. A few minutes later, we hove within hailing distance of the derelict.
Now, here's where the whacky part of my story comes in. You'd think that survivor should have been tickled pink to see us, wouldn't you? Would have waved and yelled at us?
But not this lunkhead! For the longest time, he didn't even seem to see us. Or if he did, he tried to let on like he didn't. He wouldn't answer our calls, though we must have been within hearing range.
“Deaf?” wondered the skipper aloud.
“Possibly, sir,” said the second. “But he must see us. He could at least call for help.”
“Deaf and dumb?” offered the skipper,
“Or,” I suggested, “just plain dumb, sir?” Because at this moment the man definitely saw us. He rose from his awkward kneeling posture, but instead of waving his arms, or part of the tattered rags in which he was clad, the damn fool loosed a hoarse cry of alarm, leaped off his rickety old raft, and started flailing away from us as fast as his skinny arms would carry him!
The Old Man grunted understanding. “Oh, now I see! An enemy. Very good! Fetch him aboard, lads!”
So we did. But we had to knock him unconscious to do it. Two of the seamen went into the briny after him. Catching him was like wrestling a barracuda. He kicked and bit and clawed, and almost scratched one of Bill Ovens' eyes out. That made Bill a bit peevish, so while his comrade grappled with the guy, face to face, Bill slipped up aft and let him have it behind the ear.
And the Grampus had picked up a passenger.
Some time later, when I was telling Walt about the fracas, the Old Man buzzed me.
“Levine? Would you step forward, please?”
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